Poems for a summer afternoon

Traveling down a side road that runs through wetlands, I suddenly notice that the swamp milkweed and the swamp roses have begun to bloom, sure signs that summer is progressing quickly towards its climax. Before the summer gets away from us, here are some poems for a summer afternoon - grab a lemonade, find some shade and enjoy.

(Editor's Note: This article was originally published on August 13, 2009. Your comments are welcome, but please be aware that authors of previously published articles may not be able to promptly respond to new questions or comments.)

We'll begin at the beginning.

Midsummer

Summer solsticeand the coonhoundat the new houseserenades the slow declineof the sun.After a cold, wet week,we have pulled outa fullblown summer’s day.

In the Small Rain

There is a cowstanding with her nose up,all the other cowsstand or lie with their heads down,the small rain making them sleepy and stupid,but she, the cow with her nose up,has caught the scent of somethingand she moves back and forth a bit,testing the tiny drift of air,too light to be called a breeze.It is probably food. Her life is builtaround food and sex and birth.Perhaps a clover has shaken out a new leaf, or a timothy headsprinkled fresh pollen across her path.She stands for a moment moreand then shakes like a large, cumbersome dog,her head back down, nosing the barnyard gravel,scent and memory fading in the small rain.This farm has taught me much.

Weeds

Hobblebush baneberry jimsonweed carrion flower

Sometimes I hated you,teaching me to want you dead,feeding me bitterness and thwarted liveswith old horehound and sour lemon drops.

Death angel nightshade toad stool doll’s eyes

I’d head for the woods,but you’d be there, limping along a cow pathwatching gravity pull down your dreams,hunch your back, leaving you with ruins and gall.

Pig weed purslane sheep sorrel golden rod

you wanted me to payas you had, to earn every stalk and branch,to pay in years, the pain of waiting, my youth gone,my dreams, you wanted me to know as no one else had.

Heal-all boneset vervain Joe-Pye weed

But I learned patience, fought bitterness with small hopes fulfilled, hard work found new marks met,stone by stone it all came to me in your life.You refused to see it, refused to know my joy.

Musk mallow jewel weed pussy toes meadowsweet

I have mourned you, and know what you might have had, what could have come to you here.This farm is balm, a quietness in my spirit,your bitterness come sweet, rest you easy.

An Old Song

The geese, with their new flight feathersgo over for the first time in weeks.They give the little ponda quick buzz, fly onto the bigger pond over the hill.The flock has grown from fiveearly in spring, to twelve.They call the whole way over.Under the geese, the sparrows chirp, under the sparrowsthe crickets tunein their late summer search for an old song,under the crickets my heartfinds an older rhythm.The sun rises above the woodand filters through nut trees in the side yard.

It's a year for strange weather, wet and cool in the east.

Mermaid

If I were to walk out now,open the door and step into rainfalling straight and solid,it would be like walking underwater,my bowing poppies and baby’s breath become sea flowers, the daisiesstarfish moving in the current.I would learn to use gillslong abandoned, and make my handsact as fins, pulling me acrossthis new sea’s floor,swimming through rain falling from clouds piled 40,000 feet high.To walk out now would requirethis sea change, and courage.

Hot and dry in other parts of the country.

In a Dry Season

The rain is a ghostthat haunts us. It whispers a melody through the high branchesof the tallest trees, and moves on.Field and flower wilt in its passing,and the days pile up,like thunderheads to the west.

Dry Summers

Thunder and windblow in from the northwestfog clears suddenlyand rainscatters across the yard,a near misswith a storm centered north of us.Our clouds break and runin a breeze suddenly cooland dry.Twenty years ago,in another dry summer,Wilhelmina said,“In the Bible it saysit rains on the just and the unjust.What do you suppose that makes us?”I can still hear her laughif I listen closely.I think even God smiled.

Summer often takes a turn at the end of July.

Waiting for August

July crickets are paleand silent, they hideamong the stones, waitingfor Augustwhen they become sleek and black,rock starslaying down the back beatfor the ants.

August’s Bitter Gold

If a tree fall in the woodin August’s bitter gold,does it make the soundof crack and kick out,slow tear and fall,muffled thud and sighof brush and branch?

And if I, alone in that stillness do hear all of it,from first tender breakto last hollow crashing,must I say it was all for me that the sound welled across the pond’s calm?

End of Time

Late August heat,before the dregs of a Gulf hurricanedrags its rainand a chill Canadian breezeover us,has the crickets singingend of time songs.

This article completes a cycle that brought you poems from each of the four seasons and the bits in between. I hope you've found them enjoyable.

All poems are the property of Kathleen M. Tenpas and used with permission of the author.

About Kathleen M. Tenpas

About Kathleen M. Tenpas

We have a grazing dairy of 55 cows in the rolling hills of western New York State where we raised two daughters who have now blessed us with four grandchildren. I have messy, jungly beds of old roses, (some real antiques left by former owners), perennials, wildflowers and lots and lots of not so ornamental grasses! I have a Masters degree in Creative Writing: Poetry from Antioch University. I am a photographer and fabric artist and I bake a mean loaf of bread.